The World's Only Consulting Dickhead
by Revenna
Summary: Dean gets a call from an old friend asking him help on a series of cases that seems to be driving the notorious Sherlock Holmes into insanity. With prompting from Sam, Dean agrees to board the plane, but when they get to London, it's all bad attitudes and swearing. If they're going to stop the killings, first they've got to put their grudges aside. [Destiel&Johnlock incorporated]


It was late afternoon when Dean got the call.

He plunged his hand into the drawer on the nightstand between his bed and Sam's, pawing through the various trinkets for his phone, its buzzing muffled by the sea of junk. His fingers hovered for a moment, then found the area that was lit by a vague blue glow, and fumbled for it, unfolding the device with the trained flick of his hand. Dean normally wouldn't have thought twice about checking the caller ID, but the second he answered the phone, he vainly wished he had.

"Good day, Mister Winchester- or, should I say good afternoon?" The voice on the other end had a distinctive british accent, and a deep, arrogant sort of swagger to it- who it belonged to was absolutely undeniable.

Dean's first thought, of course, was to snap the phone shut and break it, so he wouldn't have to deal with this asshole's attitude, but he thought the better of it. Knowing this guy, he'd just find another way to get a hold of his new number. Seeing no way out of the conversation, Dean sighed heavily.

"What," he demanded tiredly, dreading what Sherlock Holmes could possibly need that he would call in a favor from across the world.

"There is a case that I need help with- and I wouldn't be calling unless I absolutely needed your- _expert_- advice on it."

"I'm glad you called- Otherwise I might have forgotten why it is that I hate you."

"I don't need insults, Winchester, I need results."

"Fine. What do you need?" Once again, Dean regretted his reply.

A strange voice uttered an unintelligible question on the other line, but it was drowned out by Sherlock as he shot into a long explanation.

"I was called up the other day to investigate a crime scene dealing with the murder of a young lady. Supposedly human, but no footprints besides her own and her boyfriend's, and no signs of forced entry. The security camera on her front porch has also told us that nothing went in or out of her house after she got home from the cinema. She died of a set of claws to her abdomen, but neither of the couples owned a dog, and a dog could not do that sort of damage. I would say a bear, but the specimen's hair found on the carpets was clearly of a canine origin, and it's doubtful that a grizzly bear, judging by size, wandered into the center of London, teleported into her apartment, killed her, and then clambered out through the window. There has also been a series of very strange killings prior to this, including a wealthy man who was impaled by a healthy, living sapling on a still night, and an elderly couple both found drowned in the six-inch-deep water of their sink. If I'm not mistaken, this is your area of crime solving, and since even _I_ can't find a reasonable explanation for all of this, I found it only fitting to call in that favor you owed me."

Dean sat through his extensive description of the crime scenes with a distant look in his eyes, and an exasperated groan building at the back of his throat.

"I'm not going over there. It's probably just a werewolf, a coincidence, and some homicidal elderly-couple serial killer."

"Dean-"

He closed the phone pointedly, and placed it on the nightstand with unnecessary force, falling backwards onto the hotel bed before kicking his shoes off into some remote corner. He folded his arms behind his head with a soft huff of breath, laying silently in thought until the slow purr of the impala drew him from his thoughts. A few seconds after the engine was killed, the door of the room swung open, and Sam walked in with an armful of groceries, beads of rain rolling from his jacket and staining his hair almost black with wetness. He tossed the bags onto the floor next to his bed, hung his jacket up, then shuffled his hair with both hands until it was a slightly lighter tangled mass.

"The weather," he complained, taking a seat on the rim of the bed,"is terrible."

"I told you it was going to be cold today," Dean replied, not realizing his tone until it was too late. A winced twisted his face as Sam turned to look at him.

"Who crapped in your corn flakes?" Sam said, though his expression was of concern.

Dean looked back at him, opening his mouth to say something, but pausing a moment to consider before telling him the truth- a gesture Sam raised an eyebrow at subtly.

"I owe some guy in London a favor. Biggest dick you'll ever meet,"he included before Sam got any ideas,"but a damn fine detective."

His brother looked mildly downcast, but hope still flickered behind his eyes. "Well, what'd you tell him?"

"I told him no way."

It was then that he turned truly upset.

"Dean, it's a chance to work a case in _London._ How could you say no to that?"

"To spare myself an aneurism and Sherlock Holmes a broken jaw."

"It's literally one of my life goals to go to London. I would deal with the biggest dick on the planet for an excuse to go there!"

Dean cocked an eyebrow in a mischievous manner. "The biggest dick on the planet? Are you *_certain._*"

"Yes, absolutely!" Sam seemed to absolutely glow at the prospect of going to London to work a case, and he sat up a bit the second Dean showed the first sign of budging on the subject. Dean just flashed his palms in a way that said "It's your funeral," and reached for his phone on the nightstand.

"Fine, but you'll be paying any medical expenses."

(*)

Sherlock tapped the end button on his cell absent-mindedly, his left hand supporting his head as he stared at the woodwork of the floors. He ran over the crime scenes again in his head, kneading his chin with his knuckles as he tried to piece together how and why the sapling had fallen. Wind was out of the question, for the air was practically still that night. The way it splintered showed that nor an axe or chainsaw had been introduced to the trunk. That only left the option of something weighing it down, which was impossible unless something very heavy had possibly been attached or planted on it, and there was not a single piece of evidence that supported that theory- not even the tree seemed to snap in a manner that would suggest weight.

"Well?" John said, completely snapping Sherlock's train of thought. He sat back in his chair and planted two fingers on his temple with a sigh.

"Sorry, what?"

John's eyebrows raised a bit as they usually did when he was being ignored. "I asked who you were talking to."

At this comment, Sherlock's eyes trailed back to his phone in his right hand, fingers rolling thoughtfully over the sides as a knowing smirk played at his lips.

"Somebody who owes me a favor."

John scoffed as if the notion were ridiculous, and Sherlock had to mentally prepare himself for what he expected to be an ignorant comment- and was proven to rightly have done so.

"Who on earth could help in these cases? A ghost buster?"

"I suppose you could call them that."

John's brow dropped now, and his eyes squinted as if trying to read what he was talking about, but Sherlock's grin only spread a bit wider as he let a soft chuckle slip. After a few seconds of intense thought, John eventually just leaned back onto the wall and palmed the side of his face, clearly having given up trying to get any information on the particular topic.

"Well, are they coming? They seem terribly... hostile towards you."

Sherlock tore his gaze from the floor to look John in the eye, his expression unfaltering as he said," Does it surprise you?"

John huffed," Hardly. But are they coming, or no?"

Sherlock turned back to the floorboards with a soft grunt of acknowledgement. "Yes."

"But he hung up on you?"

"Yes. But he'll call back."

"How can you tell?"

Sherlock rolled the phone in his hand. "His younger brother is extraordinarily fond of Europe."

John tilted his head, and watched the device in contemplation. "... Sherlock."

"Hmm."

"How far away are these people?"

Sherlock turned to smirk at him knowingly. "That would depend on which state they're investigating at the moment."

"... Americans?"

"Yes. I doubt the eldest has even considered his means of transportation." John gave him a skeptical look, but Sherlock slowly pulled his gaze towards the window. "He's not terribly fond of airplanes."

(*)

Sam rubbed his thumb appreciatively over the well-kempt steering wheel of the impala, tempted to browse radio stations, but knowing better than to change Dean's music- especially with him in his current state.

At first, Dean had been unchangingly stubborn over his rights to drive to the airport, but after getting fifteen minutes onto the highway and nearly hurling them over the median, he'd finally agreed to let Sam take the wheel. He sat in the passenger seat now, staring out the window like he was being driven to his death bed. It was hard not to chuckle at his discomfort, but as a brother, it seemed cruel to do so, so Sam just tried out a bit of encouragement.

"You know we're not driving into the pits of hell," he almost added i'again,'/i but managed to censor himself. "It won't kill you."

Dean grimaced in response, and Sam knew he was also unpleasantly reminded of their underground detours. "You don't know that," he spat back, adjusting himself in his seat.

"It's pretty unlikely, Dean."

"But not impossible," he insisted. Sam finally gave up and shook his head, reaching for the dial on the radio, only to have his hand promptly batted away. "Hands off."

Sam shooed him away, saying in his defense, "I was just going to turn up the volume." He did so only a few notches, but enough to make a difference in the deafening white noise of the highway. "Grumpy ass," Sam grumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," he cooed.

Dean shot him a cold look, then reclined his seat and dropped with a muffled "Oomph." Sam finally let a quick chuckle slip, eliciting no words from his brother, but causing an obscene hand gesture to be shoved in his face before Dean flipped onto his side with his back to him and slowly dozed off. Sam extended an arm slowly towards the dial once he was certain his brother was asleep, but drew back after a grumbled "Don't. Touch." from him. He showed his palms in a sign of submission, then just dropped them back to the steering wheel with a resentful sigh. It was lucky it wasn't too far a drive to the nearest airport- only another forty-five minutes.

The rest of the ride passed quickly and was relatively uneventful, but by the time they pulled into the airport, Sam's eyes were getting heavy and his legs had started to fall asleep. He was ready to reach over and nudge Dean awake, but instead turned the volume up on the radio until it was blasting, and laughed audibly as his brother jerked awake, only to hit his head on the ceiling of the car. Sam shut the car off quickly and made a bolt for it, popping open the trunk before he leapt out of the driver's side, unable to run far for how hard he was laughing.

He stood up a bit straighter and turned to look over his shoulder for Dean, but found that the passenger side was empty. He was dumbfounded for only a split second before he realized the red-faced, wild-eyed hunter that was hurtling over the hood of the impala like it was an elementary skill- which, looking back on it, it probably was for Dean. Sam let out a startled laugh and backed up a few paces, but only got so far before Dean caught him by the collar of his jacket and put him in a headlock, using his free hand to massacre Sam's hair into what he could only describe as a rat's nest. Sam made an attempt to writhe free, but with how out of breath he'd become, it was entirely in vain. However, Dean seemed to be feeling charitable today, and released him as soon as he was satisfied with the damage he had inflicted, strutting to the trunk as if he'd just won a bar fight.

"That's what you get for not letting sleeping dogs lie, Sammy."

Sam bumped him on the shoulder with his fist before scooping up his own luggage over his shoulders.

"Well maybe sleeping dogs should let me change the radio station."

Dean waved his hand in dismissal with a grunt that sounded too much like "Bah, Humbug," to be taken to heart.

(*)

The sound of sirens created a harmonious dissonance outside the apartment as John set the kettle sat in the corner of the room, hands folded before his mouth in his signature position of thought, eyes shut against the commotion of "lesser" detectives bustling about his flat. They weren't doing anyone any good, or even trying to solve the case for that matter- they were simply just trying to figure out exactly what they were all doing there and what had summoned them. John huffed and recounted the events of the past forty-five minutes.

He and Sherlock had been cleaning everything in the flat- entirely by John's insistence- when Anderson had called with news of yet another incident. Sherlock dropped his feather duster upon hearing his name, and practically dragged his assistant out of the apartment building- not paying heed to whether or not John tripped up behind him- and threw him into the taxi he hailed. Once inside, Sherlock recited the address to the cabbie, then leaned into the seat with a sigh.

Meanwhile, John sat on the opposite side, his left hand splayed on his chest from habit of checking his pulse and the other fumbling to shove the seat belt into the clamp. Once it clicked shut, he looked up to the consulting detective that sat two seats from him looking as though he won the lottery. John frowned slightly.

"You know, we still have to clean when we get back," he reminded him, concerned that Sherlock would get caught up in the case.

Sherlock, however, just grunted in disapproval and flicked his hand at him, returning once again to the signature Holmes-prayer position. John rolled his eyes and decided to entertain himself by picking apart the cabby; unfortunately all he could deduce was that he was happily married and had been at the job for a long time- probably around twenty years.

After a relatively quiet, peaceful ride filled with the occasional mutterings of Sherlock, the car pulled to a stop. Sherlock hurled himself out of the vehicle before it was even completely still, leaving John to pay the driver with a hasty apology and a bundle of bills stuffed into his hand before making a mad dash to catch up.

As soon as John stepped over the threshold and into the room, he felt like he was getting into something very personal.

It was a small, cozy-looking flat if you could ignore the blood spattered in an ugly fashion across the pale blue floral wall paper and clustered in little pools over well-kept vanilla carpet. Caution tape was pulled haphazardly from the sides of the front threshold, but before John had seen the gore, he had been tempted to wipe his feet on the welcome mate before going any further. And yet, even though this was a perfectly normal flat with the familiar sense of cautious interest that came with most crime scenes, there was something new about this one. Maybe it was the tray of cookies on the counter from an unmarked sender or the way the young woman lay, knife in her back, with her fingers clasped around a small knitted bag, but something in this massacre was off, and not in the way that John would put to Sherlock to solve.

Sergeant Donovan had been standing, scratching notes down onto a tablet when she spotted them coming in, and they were immediately greeted with the I'd-rather-you-were-the-one-in-the-body-bag look she always saved for Sherlock. However, he ignored her expression, as was the norm, and spent a good thirty seconds observing the body before pestering her with questions that seemed out-of-the-ordinarily off topic. Normally, John would have been paying close enough attention to repeat back what was said word-for-word, but something about the small knit bag she was holding was extremely intriguing. He knelt down, extending a hand as though he were about to handle a ticking bomb, and picked it up, holding it gently between his thumb and index. An odd, clean sort of scent came from it. He held it up to his nose, and- yes, a toddler could have picked out the stale aroma of herbs wafting from the little sack. Taking a quick glance up at Sherlock to see if he was paying attention, he tucked it into his coat pocket, then stood back up.

It seemed as though he'd caught the two at the end of their conversation, because at the moment, Donovan was strutting off with a particularly arrogant gait with Sherlock glaring after her in a state of agitation. Finally, John spoke up.

"What do you think of it?" He prompted curiously, mildly concerned that he had yet to hear an earful of Sherlock's pondering. The detective simply stayed silent for a few extra seconds before letting out a frustrated huff and striding out of the apartment with an air of sincere frustration. John scrambled after him, nearly tripping on the unfortunate former resident of the flat. When he got out of the door, it seemed he had done so just on time, for the tip of Sherlock's scarf had just vanished around the corner of the hall. He picked up his pace to a quick jog, now thoroughly concerned about both the crime scene and his flatmate.

By the time he had caught up with Sherlock, John was panting, and thoroughly begrudged.

"What? Am I missing something?" He pestered, exasperated with the lack of explanation. All he got in response was a somewhat pointed look, and a good bit more walking to be done. John had every right to think Sherlock was waiting to hail a cab, but every one that passed was ignored. Just as he prepared to ask where they were going, however, he realized he'd lost track of Sherlock. Again. He planted a hand on his forehead with a sigh, finally making the decision to hail one himself.

He flopped into the back seat and murmured an instinctual "221 Baker Street" before leaning back to stare out of the window, brewing over how he would be cleaning the apartment alone tonight.


End file.
